Haunting
by TheDVirus
Summary: Jack encounters Pitch for the first time 30 years before the events of the movie. One shot.


Jack didn't believe in ghosts. He knew this was ironic considering his own situation.

Despite this disbelief however he felt a shiver run up his spine as he looked at the old house. Maybe it was the way the large black bay windows seemed to gaze at him. Or the front door gently swaying to and fro in the summer breeze like a hand beckoning him closer.

This wasn't one of his usual places. Normally when summer got too hot for him, he hid inside a nearby meat locker at the butcher's on Burgess high street. But this year the butcher had gone on vacation so the locker had been locked up tight. Jack knew he had a lot in common with ghosts but he couldn't pass through walls.

So he had figured the old house was a good bet. Period houses usually had basements: which meant a nice, cool place to sleep in and wait out the heatwave. It saved him the trouble of travelling to the North or South Pole and also spared North's yetis the stress of trying to keep his curiosity out of the workshop.

He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the unnatural sweat on the blue material of his hoodie. The heat of the day had been building up and the black clouds overhead made no secret of the storm to come. Deciding to blame the sweat on the weather rather than nervousness, he walked towards the house.

Thanks to the family friendly neighbourhood, there weren't the usual empty alcohol bottles on the parched lawn or graffiti daubed on the flaking walls. But there were plenty of stories about the house being haunted. Every kid in the street knew some kind of story about another kid's cousin/friend/sister/dog who'd supposedly gone in for a dare and had never come out. Jack had heard them talk about it plenty of times, especially during the cold autumn nights coming up to Halloween.

The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open gently with his staff. Thanks to the streetlights and the bright full moon outside coming through the windows, he could make out the wallpaper and discern the shapes of dusty furniture in the gloom. He closed the door gently behind him and walked down the darkened hallway.

Pitch Black was not having a good night.

For the first time in years, he had decided to indulge in some proper active scaring. Things had started promisingly enough. He had tickled a teenage girl's ear in a cinema making her believe a spider was in her hair. Her screams had caused the staff to turn the lights on to find out the commotion. A simple technique but highly effective when the victim was watching a horror film. Then he had gone to Burgess General Hospital and walked through the fathers waiting outside the labour wards. It wasn't quite the kind of fear he craved. Fear for others was always too sweet and less filling to him than selfish fear. On the other hand, there had been enough nervousness to bring a pleasant full feeling to his stomach.

Finally, he had decided to scare a child to bring a relaxing end to the evening. He had already decided on keeping it simple. A creak of the wardrobe door, a tapping at the window, letting them feel there was someone in the room watching them, etc.

The one he had chosen was a nervous little boy called Matt. Always worrying about something. His asthma. His numerous (and thanks to a hypochondriac of a mother, often fictional) allergies. His mediocre grades. Whether Becky down the street with the blonde hair in pigtails liked him. The bullies. Pitch had been watching Matt for a while. He had followed him home from school, drawing on the boy's fear of bullies around every corner. The boy was such a bundle of nerves that Pitch knew the boy could tell he was there even if he couldn't see him. The boogeyman had spent a long time carefully cultivating that fear and now he was going to treat himself to it.

But it had gone wrong.

He had entered the room from the shadows under the child's bed and slithered up to full height. The child knew he was there. Thunder had rumbled outside and a brief flash of lightning had cast Pitch's shadow over the blanket. He could hear the little boy's heart racing. His little breaths were shallow and muffled from clasping his hand over his mouth. He huddled beneath his blanket. He prayed the monster wouldn't get him.

Pitch had been so keen to taste true, innocent fear that he hadn't seen the torch until it was too late.

It was a stupid mistake. One of those irksome 'coping mechanisms' so many parents relied on these days. He had become wary of nightlights in bedrooms but this little boy had been clutching his torch under the blanket. Throwing it off as Pitch had loomed over him, the child had turned it on him full blast, his desperate fear spurring him into action instead of paralysis. As the light engulfed Pitch and he began to burn, he heard the child's belief cut through the alluring atmosphere of fear.

_My big brother gave this to me: it's a lightsaber that keeps monsters away!_

Pitch had barely had the strength to escape back under the bed. He certainly didn't have the strength to return to his lair. The torch had scorched him badly. He had run as far as he could before he had been forced to become solid again. He was dismayed to find himself on Burgess's empty high street. He had only travelled a couple of blocks!

He looked in a nearby department store's window to survey the damage. There were black splashes on his greyish skin where his essence leaked through. His yellow eyes had turned grey, reflecting the now hollow emptiness in his stomach and his robe was tattered. Even as he lifted the material from the ground to inspect it, parts of the cloak flaked off in his hands like snakeskin. He dropped it and slammed a fist into the window's surface. What a waste of an evening!

As if on cue, the rain started. The warm heavy drops splashed down on the pavement and soon the blackness bleeding down Pitch's arm was mingling with the water.

Snarling at his unflattering reflection, he recalled a nearby haunt of his. An old abandoned house. He could rest there until tomorrow night. He could feed on the subliminal dread that people felt when they passed the fence. It wouldn't be much but it would be enough. With a knot of anger festering in his empty stomach, Pitch bitterly reflected on how that was all he could hope for nowadays. Scraps and old bones were practically his bread and butter!

Jack knew the basement would be under the stairs. He had done a quick circle around the outside of the house earlier and had found the usual little window peeking above the lawn line. However, thanks to the ivy coating that side of the house, he hadn't been able to prise it open.

Jack was feeling more comfortable as he carefully descended the stairs. The walls were slightly damp and the stifling heat was being swallowed by cool darkness. He could feel the thin magical coating of permafrost returning to his skin and sighed gratefully when he felt his sweat vanish. Even his staff was glowing faintly. In warm weather it was all but powerless so the sight of the icy fern like tendrils curling around the wood again was a welcome sight. It felt like he had room to breathe again.

Finally he reached the bottom step.

The moonlight through the ivy snaking across the window cast a pattern on the grey floor. There were numerous boxes stacked here and there. A disused bicycle leaned against an old wooden workbench. Dust motes danced in the light. The rain outside was falling heavily and a thin trickle of water slipped down the wall from a gap in the window.

Jack flopped down on some sandbags to the left of the small stream. They weren't much but would make an okay bed for the night. Laying his staff down, he watched the water continue its journey across the concrete floor.

And noticed the drying footprints leading into the darkness a few feet away from the end of the stream.

He wasn't alone.

He felt something moving in the dark. For some reason he was reminded unpleasantly of water. Someone- a girl?- crying his name. Of sinking. Sinking into a cold abyss with something waiting for him at the bottom. Something old. Something hungry. A deep sea predator coming closer. To taste. To bite.

He gripped his staff in both hands and got up slowly. He squinted, trying to pick out colours or signs of movement from his shadowy surroundings.

Then he saw them. Two white pinpricks in the dark. Eyes watching him from the corner.

Pitch knew the boy had seen him. He flattered himself that he had allowed it.

The creaking of his joints along with the nagging aches and itches as his flesh reknitted told him otherwise.

He knew he couldn't run so he decided to use the environment to his advantage.

He got up slowly from the sofa he had been lying on, as much for effect as for the sake of his injuries.

Jack watched as the eyes suddenly rose higher than they had been. He thought he could make out a human sized shape. But it wasn't human. Humans never saw him and this thing was looking right at him.

'If you wanna help me out here, that'd be great', Jack thought, glancing upwards to where the moon sat in the night sky.

Pitch could sense the boy wasn't human.

As he moved slightly closer, he could make out the delicate shining designs on the staff the boy held and could feel the gentle coolness that seemed to radiate from the boy's frail body.

His jaw tightened as he saw the boy look up at the accursed moonlight. Maybe another of the Man in the Moon's precious guardians? Could they never leave him alone?! For all Pitch knew the Man in the Moon had seen him limp under the crack in the window into the house and sent one of his lackeys to check up on him!

As the eyes suddenly surged towards him, Jack swung with the staff on reflex. A brisk icy draft caught his attacker and the flash of blue light briefly illuminated the figure.

Jack caught a glimpse of greyish skin, a black robe and pale eyes before the figure was swallowed by shadow again.

Something stirred in his memory. Something North had once told him when he had stopped for a chat one Christmas Eve.

Pitch was cautious now. The boy hadn't run as he had expected him to. People always had two reactions to fear: fight or flight. Pitch certainly didn't fancy his chances if another fight came along.

'Are you the boogeyman?'

The question cut through his internal musings. The boy was actually daring to move closer now!

'What gave it away? My cheerful disposition?' Pitch answered.

'Excellent', he thought, 'Pride bruised but sarcasm still intact'.

Jack relaxed at the human sound of the voice but then rubbed his neck in embarrassment.

'Sorry if I kinda broke into your house. Nice place'.

Ignoring the strained compliment, Pitch retorted, 'It's not mine'.

'Whose is it?'

The boy just kept asking questions!

'Does it matter?'

Jack gave up and tried another tactic.

'Guess not'.

He stretched an open hand out to the darkness.

'I'm Jack. Jack Frost. You?'

'You know who I am'.

Ignoring the fact that Pitch had ignored his hand, Jack shook his head mischievously.

'Nah. 'Boogeyman' doesn't suit you. I hear that and I think afros and stuff you know? Come on, what's your real name?'

'Pitch Black', came the cool reply.

'Now that suits you'.

Hearing Jack click his fingers in triumph helped Pitch decide that the company definitely did not suit him. Rain be damned. There were other dark places to wait out the night. Even if some of them were decidedly unpleasant, at least he wouldn't be subjected to countless questions.

He moved to leave but a jolt from his leg caused him to stagger. He caught himself on a stacked box, accidentally moving into the moonlight and Jack's full view.

'Woah! What happened to you?'

Resenting the fact that the Man in the Moon had potentially seen his injuries as well as Jack, Pitch slid back into the gloom, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. He ignored Jack's craning attempts to get a look at his injuries. He hated the concern in the boy's eyes.

'Nothing permanent'.

'Are you okay?'

'Why do you care?' Pitch snarled, his tentative grip on his patience exhausted.

Jack's eyes widened at the aggression in Pitch's voice but then he shrugged.

'Just trying to help'.

Pitch went back to his sofa and lowered himself down. Dust flew into the air and caught the moonlight. He stifled a pained gasp as his weight settled.

'I don't need your help'.

Jack twirled his staff idly between his fingers then sat back down heavily on his sandbags. After a few brief moments, during which time Jack whistled, tapped his staff and drummed his fingers incessantly, he finally officially broke their truce of silence.

'Look, we're stuck here for the night. We may as well try to get along'.

Looking up at the ceiling, Pitch brought a palm to his face, covering his eyes.

'A guardian fraternising with a lowly spirit like me? I'm flattered'.

Jack's snort of laughter caused Pitch to turn towards the boy. He was sitting cross legged, head resting on a hand, wagging a disapproving finger.

'Sorry to disappoint you but I'm not a guardian'.

So not one of the Man in the Moon's little minions then. With one sentence, Jack unwittingly raised his approval rating with Pitch immensely. It still did not mean he liked him but he decided he could tolerate him. Or at least try to. Jack had a point after all. The rain was still not letting up and Pitch felt too comfortable to leave. Jack produced a wonderfully cool aura that was helping to ease the itching sensation of the healing process.

'No, I suppose I would've heard of you'.

There was no response at first which surprised Pitch. As he looked over, he caught a glimpse of a dark look on Jack's pale face before a playful grin stole it away.

'Well I've heard all about you'.

What had that look been about? Despite himself, Pitch was intrigued. There was more to this Jack Frost than met the eye.

'And what have you heard?'

'All good stuff I promise'.

'I don't believe you'.

'Gotta admit, I don't understand the scaring kids thing'.

Now it was Pitch's turn to pause. What answer to choose? About how it made him feel powerful again. About how he was scaring them for their own good. About how good it felt to see people run and scream and-

'It's what I do. It's why I'm here'.

'Did he pick you too?'

'Who?'

Jack gestured above him at the window.

'Man in the Moon'.

That answer was easy.

'No'.

'He doesn't talk to me either. Well, he did once. Told me my name but since then, nothing'.

Jack was changeable as the wind. One minute happy and playful. The next serious and melancholy. His face young but his voice saturated with old feelings just waiting to surface.

Pitch wasn't sure what to make of it so he asked, 'Why are you telling me this?'

There was the shrug again and the staff twirling. Odd, the ticks people developed when they were uncomfortable.

'Just talking. Hey, check this out'.

Positioning his fingers at awkward angles, Jack held the up to the moonlight. On the opposite wall, just past Pitch's feet, a shadowy imitation of a bunny waggled its ears.

'Guess who?' Jack asked, 'G'day mate!'

Pitch flicked a hand. A small cloud of shadow broke off from its fellows and crawled up the wall. Jack watched as a full bodied imitation of a t-rex took shape. Stomping soundlessly towards Jack's bunny, it opened his jaws wide and swallowed it whole.

'Cool trick', Jack commented, genuinely impressed, 'So why do you hate them anyway?'

'Who?'

'Come on, you know who'.

'How do you not hate them?'

'Well the kangaroo's a bit full of himself but North's a good guy'.

Pitch tutted dismissively and regretted showing his emotion so openly when he heard Jack laugh.

'You seriously hate Santa? The nicest guy on the planet?'

'The man indulges when he should punish'.

'Can't punish kids for being kids. Everyone makes mistakes'.

Pitch knew Jack couldn't see him clearly but could've sworn the boy was looking meaningfully at the sealing wounds on his arm.

Yes, he had made mistakes. Pitch had to concede that. But the guardians had made a bigger mistake. Deciding he was no longer a threat. Deciding he was content to hide under beds and grovel for any sliver of fear they would allow him to have. It was only right to make them pay for this grievous error.

Just like the rainstorm outside, he would wait them out. Fear always won in the end.

Jack, realising the conversation was over, settled on his sandbags. He left the staff within easy reach but felt secure enough to let it out of his grip. The boogeyman was resentful, proud and bad tempered. But Jack had seen something of himself in the shadowed figure.

Why would Pitch have joined in the conversation instead of ignoring him? Why wouldn't he have left, regardless of the rain and his injuries if he hated the company? Heck, why not move to another area of the house to get away from Jack or ask him to leave? Answer: Pitch was lonely too.

He certainly didn't seem like the 'monster' North had described him as. That said, Jack was top of the Russian's 'Naughty' list for a couple of what he considered minor misdemeanours so maybe the man could be a harsh judge.

The night passed peacefully and the next morning, Jack left the house, stretching in the bearable sunshine that was now tempered with a Northerly breeze. He glanced back into the house. When he had woken up, Pitch had been gone. Jack hadn't been surprised: after all everyone knew the boogeyman disliked sunlight. There was just the question of what to do now. Maybe he should pay Phil the yeti a visit? He couldn't still be mad about the incident with the whipped cream the razor could he?

Pitch watched Jack take flight before sinking back into the blackness of his lair. There was something strange about the boy he couldn't shake. When Jack had been asleep, Pitch had attempted to find his fears. Just in case Jack ever decided neutrality wasn't for him.

He had found nothing.

All the guardians had fears. The rabbit feared being powerless. The fairy feared losing control. North for all his strength feared becoming a forgotten, old man. The Sandman's fear was still a mystery but Pitch was confident he could uncover it in time.

But Jack felt different. Pitch had picked up some residual subconscious memories of dark water and a pale light shining down but they had been muddled and confused. It was similar to the memories of the unseen things that lived in the abandoned house. It was nothing like the fears of living, breathing things. Nothing like the fears of the guardians or other magical beings.

To Pitch, Jack Frost had felt like a ghost.


End file.
